


Mates

by Nyssa



Category: Monty Python RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-28
Updated: 2010-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 22:51:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyssa/pseuds/Nyssa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael and Eric see the same situation from different perspectives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mates

It was amazing, Michael often thought, what you didn't know about people. Even your best mates.

He found Eric devastatingly sexy, with his sun-gold hair, his wide blue eyes, his lacerating wit, and his cheerful readiness to engage in just about any sort of depravity imaginable. When he had first become aware that he fancied Eric (perhaps ninety seconds after meeting him), Michael had spent months agonizing over whether to tell him. Then he decided to tell him, and spent weeks agonizing over exactly how to do it. When the moment came (they were in Eric's flat, winding down from an evening rehearsing a sketch, laughing helplessly at each other, taking frequent hits of the Moroccan cannabis Eric never seemed in short supply of), he had fallen prey to nervousness again. Michael had never been good at handling rejection, and his natural slight shyness combined with the building paranoia brought on by the strong grass led him to stammer humiliatingly, face burning, eyes unable to meet Eric's, talking around the issue in ever-widening circles, until Eric casually pulled Mike's zip down, took Mike's cock in his hands, smiled benevolently, and lowered his head to give Michael the most annihilating orgasm of his life.

Mike was stunned by how easy it was. Eric was a pushover. From that evening on, Mike could scarcely be alone with him for a moment without finding himself the happy recipient of hugs, kisses, gropes, hand jobs, blow jobs -- all accompanied by the most obscene and thoroughly delightful whispered compliments and declarations of lust he could have imagined. And Eric didn't even seem to consider all this unusual. Michael's own experience with men was so limited that he was taken completely by surprise. He was used to furtiveness, guarded glances, shameful mutual toss-offs with fellow Oxfordians as frightened of discovery as he. He had never had anything resembling a real relationship with a member of his own sex, despite numerous secret crushes and private heartbreaks. He had no problem with girls. Boys terrified him.

Eric was a revelation. At first he had been so taken aback by Eric's easy generosity with his body that he had entertained suspicions that perhaps he was no different from anyone else in their circle of friends and colleagues. Everyone, after all, loved Eric. He got on famously with all the Pythons although, mystifyingly, he refused to write with anyone. No one held this against him, and no one ever seemed terribly put out or annoyed by any of his personal foibles (the girls who followed him about like faithful spaniels; the thunderous rock & roll that blasted from his car and his dressing room; the sweet tinge of fragrant smoke that frequently hung about him and was sometimes strong enough to provide contact highs for anyone who had occasion to get into close physical proximity with him). And Eric was so -- well, "slutty" didn't even begin to describe it. For a while Michael actually wondered whether all the other Pythons were receiving the same treatment from Eric as he was. This possibility did not particularly disturb him. After all, he certainly had no claim on Eric. They were simply good mates who enjoyed a bit of fun together when the opportunity arose. All right, _enormous_ fun. But after careful observation, he abandoned the suspicion that Eric was dallying with anyone else in the group. For one thing, he always seemed available for a drink and a cuddle with Mike after a day's work was finished, or on weekends, or almost any time at all. Even Eric only got twenty-four hours in a day, Mike reasoned. He had to sleep sometime.

He finally gained some insight into Eric one beautiful Sunday afternoon in spring. It was an official weekend off, and Mike was sure the other four members of Monty Python were out somewhere enjoying the fine weather. He wasn't. He had barely seen daylight since Friday. He was waking slowly, luxuriously, in Eric's bed after another well-earned nap. They had spent all that day and the previous one in bed, with occasional detours to the floor, the shower, the couch, and the kitchen table (Eric favoured buttered scones, and buttered Michael).

As he surfaced gradually from sleep, he felt fingers combing gently through his hair. He kept his eyes closed. The fingers continued their movements, and were joined by a pair of lips. Feather-light kisses spread over Michael's scalp, tickling pleasantly as they went. Mike smiled, and shifted his head on the pillow.

Eric drew back. "Thought you were asleep."

Michael stretched slowly and yawned. "I was. You woke me with your damned groping. Don't you ever leave off?"

Eric didn't reply. Mike opened his eyes and looked curiously at him. "What's the matter?"

"I thought you liked my damned groping." Eric actually sounded hurt.

Mike blinked in surprise. "I do. I was just -- "

"Because if you don't, there's the door."

Michael gave an astonished little laugh. "What are you on about? I love it, you know I do. It was just a joke, mate." He stared at Eric, who had averted his face and was looking pointedly away from him. "Come on," Mike said, letting his voice drop to a whisper. He tugged gently at Eric's arm. "Come 'ere, I'll show you how much I like it."

To his amazement, Eric pulled away from him and got up. "No, I don't think so," he said in an oddly expressionless voice. "I think we've had enough."

Mike's jaw dropped. "We have?"

Eric rummaged through the clothes strewn over the floor, coming up with a faded pair of jeans. "Yes, we have." He slid the jeans on and sat down on the edge of the bed to pull on socks and shoes.

Michael addressed Eric's naked back, which, he noticed with an odd feeling of pride, bore several long scratches. "Look, I don't know what I said that was wrong, but I wish you'd --"

"None of this means a fucking thing to you, does it?" Eric said without turning round. His tone gave no hint of anger, but he shoved his left foot with considerable violence into a battered tennis shoe.

Mike sat up. "I don't know what you -- "

"Not a fucking thing," Eric repeated, his voice almost a whisper. "I thought if I gave you what you wanted..." He trailed off for a moment, then shrugged. "Ah, well. Been wrong before, I have."

Mike stared at the back of his head. "Wrong about what?"

Eric ignored the question. "Not that it wasn't fucking great while it lasted. You're the best, mate. You're the best I ever --"

Michael grabbed him by the shoulder. "You bastard, would you _look_ at me when you speak to me?"

Eric turned slowly to face him.

Mike took a deep breath. "Now what d'you mean, 'while it lasted' ?"

Again, Eric shrugged. "Well, I don't see any point in carrying on with this, do you?"

Michael spoke softly. "Yes. Yes, I do. I don't understand what's happened to change your mind in the last few minutes, but I haven't changed mine. I thought we had a good thing, the two of us."

"We did," Eric said, still, to Mike's consternation, employing the past tense. "Like I said, best I ever had."

Mike nodded. "And that takes in a good deal of ground."

Eric didn't smile. "Yeah. Absolutely fucking right."

"So why chuck it in?"

"Because I'm worn out, mate. I've tried everything, I've done everything, and I haven't even made a dent in you." He sighed. "I thought it'd be easy. You seemed so -- so innocent. I wasn't even sure you'd ever had a bloke before. And I didn't ask you because I didn't really want to know. I thought you'd -- " He paused, his face coloring slightly. "Well, it sounds bloody idiotic, but I thought you'd be so overwhelmed you'd fall madly in love with me. That's the way it is, for a lot of guys. It was for me, once." Eric's eyes took on a faraway expression. "I would have done anything if the bastard would have just... Well, never mind. Everybody makes mistakes, don't they?"

After a moment, Michael felt able to speak. "Why --" he began, and cleared his throat to get the annoying squeak out of his voice. "Why did you want me to fall madly in love with you?"

Eric became suddenly absorbed in raking his fingers through his tousled mop of hair. "I -- well, I liked you a lot, right from the start. And I didn't have anybody then -- I mean, nothing special, just crumpet -- and we were going to be working together, and we seemed to have a lot in common, and you were -- cute." He made a helpless gesture. "I don't know. I just wanted you. And -- then it got worse from there." He let out a long breath. "Bloody hell, I need a fag."

Silently, Mike handed him the cigarette packet and matches from the nightstand. He watched as Eric lit up and took a steadying drag.

"So you're, uh, you're in love with me, then." He felt more than a bit ridiculous saying it, but it didn't look as if Eric was going to.

Eric blew out a column of smoke and gazed past Mike's shoulder. "You could say that, I suppose, yeah."

A silence stretched out between them. Michael knew Eric was waiting, could tell from the tension in his shoulders, from the set of his jaw, from the eyes that looked resolutely away from his.

He could think of nothing to say that wouldn't be cruel, or patronising, or nauseatingly sympathetic. Or simply a lie.

Michael could not be cruel or patronising. And he knew he wouldn't be able to bear the look on Eric's face if he just said "I'm sorry." Eric wouldn't cry, but _he_ might.

But he was an actor. Actors lie.

"You're wrong, Eric," he said softly. "Wrong about me, I mean. If you think this is just -- just shagging, to me, you're wrong." He laid a hand gently on Eric's denim-clad knee. "I'm -- I--" he was stammering like an idiot, damn it "-- well, it's hard for me to put it into words, but I feel the same as you." He rushed the last words out, feeling horribly guilty, but not, he knew, as horrible as he would feel if he'd told the truth.

Eric stared at him, hard. Mike stared back with all the bravado he could muster. But he couldn't keep it up. Gradually, by degrees, his eyes dropped, and he looked away and sighed miserably.

He heard Eric laugh; a short, pained sound. "Never mind, mate," Eric said. "You tried."

"I don't want to hurt you," Michael said, almost in a whisper. God, he hoped he wouldn't cry. "I didn't realise, you see. I just didn't know how you felt --"

Eric sighed. "I know, I know. Not your fault."

Mike squeezed his eyes shut. He could not remember ever feeling quite so wretched.

He heard Eric clear his throat uncomfortably. "Bloody hell, Mike. I shouldn't have told you. I didn't mean to make you feel so..." He trailed off, and Michael felt the bedsprings shift abruptly. He looked up to see Eric disappearing through the door. A series of clatters and rustles emanated from the kitchen, and then Eric was back, a bottle of Bell's whisky in his hand.

He dropped down on the bed beside Michael and held the bottle out. "Have a drink, mate. No point going home sober."

Mike didn't hesitate. He took a long pull, coughing inelegantly as the friendly fire blazed downward. He handed the bottle back to Eric, who smiled a crooked smile and followed suit.

They passed the Scotch back and forth in silence whilst the late afternoon sun streamed lower and lower through the curtains and the shadows crept slowly across the floor.

At some indeterminate point, through a pleasant haze of warmth and numbness, Michael became aware that he was leaning against the headboard, his head resting comfortably on Eric's shoulder. He shifted slightly and felt Eric's arm round his own shoulders, steadying him. It felt good, and he sighed with contentment. But there was something he needed to tell Eric, now, whilst he could still speak. He concentrated hard to remember what it was.

He licked his lips slowly. "Eric."

"Mmm." Mike felt a pleasant vibration from Eric's throat.

"Don't want to stop," he murmured, and tilted his head to look up at Eric's face.

Eric blinked at him with cloudy eyes. "Got to," he said, and held the empty bottle upside down. "All gone."

Mike shook his head, enjoying the friction of his cheek against Eric's warm flesh. "Not th' whisky. Th' other thing."

"Oh."

"Y' know. Us."

"Us."

"Yeah. Want us to stay as we are."

"Mmm."

"Y' don't really want to stop, do you?"

Eric was silent for so long that Michael raised his head and looked closely at him, wondering dimly if he had passed out. But as he did, Eric sighed and shook his head.

"No. Don't want to stop."

Michael grinned in delight. "Oh, jolly good."

"Mmm."

" 'Cause I'd miss you if we stopped."

"Miss me, would ya? I'll say you'd miss me. I'm the best fuck you've ever 'ad."

"Yeah, but --"

"Best y' ever will have, too."

"Yeah, but --"

"Y' don't have to tell me that, mate. I know I am. 'F there's one thing I'm good at, it's --"

"No, _listen_." He tugged clumsily at Eric's arm for emphasis. "It's not jus' that. It's not, really. You're -- you're my friend, Eric. You're one of the best mates I've ever had." He felt tears welling at last, and his voice wobbled suddenly out of control. "Can't bear to lose my mates -- I need my mates -- I love them -- "

"Shh, shh," Eric said, and shook him gently. "You're smashed off your pretty arse, Mike. Shut yer mouth."

"No, I mean it, I do. If -- if you love me -- "

"Mike -- "

Michael groped his way through a mental swamp in search of words. "I mean -- you love me the way you love me -- but it don't -- doesn't -- mean I can't still love you the way I love you, which might not be the same way you love me -- but I do love you, 'cause you're my friend, and I love my friends, and I need my mates-- "

"Yeah, yeah. Jesus."

"And -- and, maybe I do love you, anyway -- I mean like you love me, not the way I love my mates, the way you love me -- I dunno, not sure how that feels, the whole thing's bloody confusing -- "

Eric sighed and closed his eyes. " 'M with you there."

"See, I never felt like that. I mean, with somebody who felt that way toward me. It was either jus', jus' a bit of fun, or it was me moonin' over them without them knowin' I was alive. D'you know what I mean? I mean --"

"I know. Shh."

" 'Cause I want you to understand, want you to know how it is, don't want you to think 'm just a bloody, cold-hearted bastard with no feelings who doesn't care about anything -- " He choked on a sob.

"Mike, please shut up. Please. My head's spinnin' bad enough... "

Mike subsided, with a sniffle. "Sorry. 'M -- a bit drunk."

Eric laughed, a helpless giggle that ended in a hiccup. "Didn't even notice, mate."

Michael slipped further down in the bed, until his head was resting against Eric's bony chest. "So sleepy," he mumbled.

"Me, too." Eric yawned expansively.

"Can't drive. Have to stay here."

" 'S okay."

"Eric?"

"Mmm."

"Don't forget what we said."

"I won't." And after a pause, "What'd we say?"

Michael closed his eyes. "Y' know. That we weren't gonna stop."

"Oh. Yeah."

Mike sighed. "Goin' t' sleep now."

His last conscious impression was of Eric's fingers playing with his hair.

 

*****

 

He woke before midnight with a dull headache, a full bladder, and a raging thirst. He disentangled himself from Eric, who still slept like the dead, and visited the flat's small, cramped toilet. When he was done he came back to the bedroom, sipping from a paper cup he'd filled twice with water from the tap, and stood at the bedside looking down at Eric.

He could leave now. He was sober enough to drive home, spend the night in his own bed, and be at the studio bright and early in fresh clothes that hadn't spent most of the weekend lying crumpled on the floor. He knew Eric wouldn't hold his disappearance against him.

He flicked the bedside lamp on and studied Eric's sleeping face. The oddly delicate features that made him so convincing in drag and contrasted so jarringly with his personality were relaxed now. His long, sandy lashes lay still against his cheekbones. The soft, cupid lips were slack, looking, as always, as though they'd been created for granting the filthiest pleasures imaginable.

Michael set the cup down on the nightstand next to the empty Scotch bottle and the dirty ashtray. Then he turned the lamp off and climbed back into bed with Eric.


End file.
